


Three Tales of Connection

by I_See_The_Stars_15



Series: Secrets Kept Close, Feelings Pushed Away [10]
Category: Hermitcraft RPF
Genre: Gen, Inner Dialogue, Kinda, Love/Hate, Unhealthy Relationships, based on soldier poet king by the oh hellos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:01:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26893348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_See_The_Stars_15/pseuds/I_See_The_Stars_15
Summary: Pain, sacrifice, dutyA soldier, a poet, and a king with three different paths meet in a server. This is the story of how they learn what love is.
Series: Secrets Kept Close, Feelings Pushed Away [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1775941
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30





	1. A Soldier Off to War (DocM77)

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory Soldier, Poet, King fic because that song is amazing no matter how many times I've listened to it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All this time, love had brought him pain and pushed him to war against an enemy he never wanted to go up against.

For the longest time, hate is all that he’s known. An anomaly like him was not made out of love and thus doesn’t know about love. Love isn’t about tearing apart the course of nature for the sake of science, it isn’t about wielding metal to someone’s spine and forcing a conscience onto to them. It sure as hell isn’t about forcing him to learn to use his instincts to kill rather than to protect himself.

No, love was as foreign to Doc as the world was when he was first made. Hatred, however, came too easily for him. Hatred for those who made him and unmade him over and over again until there was nothing he can call his except for the scars and wires that littered his body. Hatred for those who hurt him and forced him to hurt in turn until his conscience was barely as human as the rest of him. Hatred for the ones who called themselves his masters, his handlers, as though they were above the weapon they’ve created out of him. 

When he finally took his revenge he felt no satisfaction, no relief, but pure seething rage. How dare they be so quick to succumb to his attacks when he was forced to endure each experiment they thought would be interesting to perform on him? How come they got to enjoy a semblance of peace when he was never given that liberty, when he was never given the opportunity to ever enjoy anything? Maybe there was a bit of jealousy buried underneath his fury. That would at least explain why he wanted nothing more than to have been able to close his eyes like they did, to be able to drift off into the nothingness like they did.

He was a monster in a world of hunters; really, he never should have lived as long as he did, as he does right now. He always expected to be disposed of as soon as his makers found another mob to torture and use. He must have beaten them to it.

He wandered the world for a while and learned more about what it meant to be whatever he was. He wasn’t quite human, will never be human, that’s for sure. There was, however, a humane aspect of himself he slowly developed away from the clutches of his masters.

He learned about what it meant to want to protect yourself, to fight for yourself instead of for those who have power over you. He learned about what it meant to trade and trick for the sake of trickery and not for the sake of swindling others or harming them.

He learned about fun, which was an odd concept he had to grasp. The idea of doing something to enjoy it had certainly elated him as much as it confused him.

He never quite unlearned how to hate. It was such an integral part of himself, he didn’t know what it would be like not to feel anger. Instead, he learned to redirect it to adapt to his growing humanity.

It was almost like love in, a way. He learned to hate the people who hurt those who loved him. It was the best he could do to reciprocate the warmth they make him feel, solidifying it and releasing it on those who dare touch what was his.

It’s why he wanted the world to burn when it took his friends away. Beef, Etho, Bdubs, taken away by the plants the same color as his mottled skin. Oh, how he was filled with rage, with the need to get back what was his. If the world refused to give them back willingly, then he’d just have to take them by force.

Because hate is the only thing he’s ever known and that made him powerful in a way he knew terrified the other hermits. Hate without bounds made him a force to be reckoned with.

But hate with a single goal in mind? It made him unstoppable.

It’s for that reason that he went about the next world alone with the need to understand what just happened to his friends. It’s for that reason that when Grian stepped in to seemingly strip him of all the progress he’s made, he had to fight back. The man didn’t fear him, even when Doc feared himself, and so he made it his goal to give him something to fear. He’d be the one to bring Grian to his knees, just as the jungle brought the NHO to their knees. It never happened, of course. He lost but that’s not what bothered him the most. It was the fact that Grian seemed to win time and time again without even trying.

The Time Machine had perhaps been what broke him. Perhaps he was broken this whole time. He was filled not with a sense of awe or jealousy, but pure burning rage.

Why was it _Grian_ of all people to have been the one to find the answer? Why did he, who not seemed to even try, get the one thing Doc’s poured hours of work and research into? What did he have that Doc did not?

See, Area 77 was never about exploring the unknown. It was all about revenge. He had to get his revenge on Grian, on the world that always pushed him down. He was a weapon first and foremost, and a player second. He’d never let anyone push him around. That was something his makers taught him besides hate: the need to take what he knew was his. 

So he took it and fought against those who tried to rip it from his hands, and suddenly there was a breakthrough. Someone, at long last, was coming back. It was just one person instead of three, but it was a start.

Out came Keralis, simultaneously a ray of hope and a punch to the gut. What made the world decide that it was _him_ that should be brought back? Xisuma was so happy to get his friends back, why couldn’t he feel that happiness with reuniting with Bdubs, or Beef, or Etho? 

He had half a mind to give up, to let his rage go without limits and simply destroy whatever and whoever was in his reach. It was _then_ that the world decided to play along, to give him the one thing he’d wanted in this world.

Bdubs fell from the sky, but never in front of him. He fell and fell and Doc was never there to save him. Instead, it was Keralis who helped him, and so it was Keralis who Bdubs stuck to. Keralis, Bdubs, and Xisuma. Suddenly they became the trio on the server and Doc was left alone once more.

The fire in his gut simmered down to something resembling numbness. The world certainly was cruel in the way it played with its toy. There, one of the people he so desperately yearned for, in the embraces of other people. Bdubs seemed to be ignoring him, avoiding him with each step he took.

He should be happy, he should be grateful that someone he _loved_ was finally safe, but all he felt was nothing. The beginning of the new world brought that same emptiness, even when he reunited with Beef and Etho too.

He felt cold until suddenly he wasn’t. He was tireless until he was given a reason to attack again. He needed to start a fight, needed to feel that burn in his veins. He pushed and shoved until suddenly someone had the gall to stand up against him.

But it was Bdubs who accepted the bait. It was Bdubs who fought back with sharp swords and sharper insults. Bdubs with Keralis by his side when it should have been different, when it should have been him and Bdubs and Etho and Beef against the world. His mind didn’t think much of it until it was too late, only seeing each slight against his honor until all he could see was just how broken their friendship was.

Doc gave Bdubs a reason not to trust him and that hurt more than whatever torture he had to go through to be created. There, finally, did he realize that he must have felt something like love because only love can leave him hurting like this. Love was something he felt but never deserved.

It was odd, all too odd. This wasn’t what he was built for. He was built to hate and fight and that’s what he did so why did it feel so _wrong_? Why did Bdubs’s refusal to meet his eyes pained him this much?

Maybe it was because he knew there was no fixing what he did. No peace treaty or tentative agreement can undo the damage he’d done. In his effort to have Bdubs by his side again he pushed him away, and wasn’t that the nail in the coffin? No one else did this but him and his need to hate and destroy, because that was what he was made for, always has been what he was destined to do.

Now he’s gone, far away from the place that should have been his home. He ran with blood and guilt on his hands, ran with his need for rage. He’ll destroy other lands, find more people to push away and hurt, but not his friends. Never his friends. He’d rather destroy himself before he destroys anything else remotely important to him. He’d rather be a weapon pointed at the enemy than a loaded gun pointed at his friends. Not again.

_There will come a soldier who carries a mighty sword_  
_He will tear your city down_  
_O lei, O lai, O lord_


	2. A Poet Off to Heal (Stressmonster101)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All this time, love had pushed for her to heal others, even if it meant hurting herself in the process.

She had always been in love with the idea of love. From a young age, it was the one thing she desired: the ability to care for someone as much as herself, to be able to cradle something in her arms and call it hers. That was what she was always told love was: giving all that you are so that someone can be all that they can be.

She spent years wandering the world for a place she can make a home, not for herself but for others. She was raised to be a caregiver, to want to make others feel safe so she can feel safe. It was just too easy for her to give. She never had many attachments. Even if she did like money as much as the next person, she would give it all up if it meant someone had the chance to enjoy life. The world praised her for it, called her generous and kind and loving, and wasn’t _that_ always a good thing to be called?

Loving in a world that was full of selfishness and hatred. Loving in a world where it was every person for themselves, where you were useless if you were not working. That was the one thing she hated about the world, she supposed: it seemed to fight back against her wish to help. Any world she found was full of lovely people but they were all self-sufficient. No matter how hard she tried they didn't need her help. It made her smile that they seemed satisfied, but it made her own heart ache to not be useful in any way.

She was never one to build monuments or farms. She was decent at it, but she wouldn’t consider herself to be near any level of mastery like many others she’s met. Really, the only skill she can rely on was the ability to help, to give all she could give.

She considered it luck and a blessing to have been invited to Hermitcraft. The hermits formed a group that was nothing short of extraordinary. They constantly seem to be pushing the limits of what can be done in a supposedly limitless world. The world is constantly full of innovators, miracle-workers, builders, and leaders with immeasurable amounts of creativity and energy. 

It was also full of fools who didn’t know anything about self-care. Not only did the hermits push the limits of what they can create, but they also push the limits of how much their bodies can take. It didn’t matter if they were human, robot, hybrid, or anything in between. It wasn’t uncommon to see people passed out on top of half-baked projects, or starving from staring at a build for too long. For all their jaw-dropping skills and builds, they don’t have the ability to understand what’s healthy, both physically and emotionally.

That was why she was there, this was the place she was destined to be in. It didn’t matter that her builds weren’t as spectacular or eye-catching as the others, nor did it matter that she always had to ask the others for help with farms or resources. It really didn’t matter that the world sometimes made her feel small, even smaller than her physical height. She forced it not to matter.

Now she could make herself useful in different ways. She could finally help others just as she was meant to and didn’t that fill her with joy.

See, she had a way with words. She wasn’t like Joe, not by a mile. Her words couldn’t evoke foreign emotion no matter how hard she tried, and her lines didn’t flow as smoothly as his. Really, she thought they didn’t flow at all. They were just chunks of feelings she tried to express.

But if there was one thing her words could do, it was to get people to open up. People trusted her with the emotions and their secrets and all their insecurities, more than they sometimes trust themselves. She made it clear she was open to everyone, that she’d listen to whatever they had to say and she followed through with it. Just a few assurances and people were sharing things they’ve never shared before.

She enjoyed the conversations she’d have with the hermits, no matter how serious they usually were. She loved them, why wouldn’t she be available if they had thoughts in their mind they wanted to let out? It was what love was after all. It was all about being there for others.

It was a burden sometimes, she must admit. It was welcomed, but heavy nonetheless. The weight of the insecurities they’d tell her settled deep inside like something she couldn’t shake off, but that was alright wasn’t it? Really, it didn’t matter how heavy her own heart felt as long as the others could feel lighter after they talked to her.

That became the basis of her routine ever since she entered the world, and it became all the more prevalent in the new world once the general excitement of starting over died down. She would wake up and check if anyone messaged her expressing they wanted to visit her for a chat. There was usually at least one person, and more often than not it meant they had something to share. She would take the next few minutes planning her day based on that. There were 23 people on the server, who felt most comfortable with her in different ways. She needed to remember and decide what course of action to take, whether they liked tea or coffee while they chatted, whether they’d like to be in the open or in somewhere more secure.

From there she’d go on with her day, maybe bake if the hermit would like to eat since there was no way she’d be serving her friends anything but fresh cookies. She would build or go to one of her farms until it was time to meet up and forget about anything else except for the person seated in front of her. Sometimes they would just chat, sometimes they’d just trade stories or gossip over a hot drink and some sweet snacks. Other times she’d have to let the drinks cool in favor of comforting her friend. Once they were satisfied they’d leave her alone, some offer to help clean up before they do, and she would go back to work until it was time to sleep. She’d go to bed, rest, wake up and repeat it all the next day.

Except, it was getting harder and harder to get out of bed each morning. Each time she looked outside she only saw Iskall’s sprawling tree or Mumbo’s abandoned temple of a base and she couldn’t help but want to keep her head low. It was just normal, wasn’t it? When you’re faced with something that constantly overshadowed you and whatever you try to create, you try to look away from it. That was just how people were, they avoided the things that make them feel lesser.

This was her role on the server, she supposed. She was the one to give people advice over tea, or to be a shoulder for them to cry on when their feelings were bottle up for too long, but it’s gotten harder and harder for her to tell what were their feelings and what were _hers_.

Has she always felt this insecure, looking at her friends’ creations? Has she always been this uncertain of whether or not she was actually contributing to this server? After all, there could come a time where everyone would be better, where the hermits learned to look after themselves and would have no need to come to her for advice. She’d be happy for them when that time comes, and part of her truly hoped that time will come.

She couldn’t help but wonder about what it would mean for her place in the world though. She would be left again without anyone to care for, to give up everything for, and that thought scared her. She wanted to love as she was always told to love, even if it meant losing herself in the process. That was the essence of love to her: to be able to give until you could no longer give, to help those who hurt so they no longer hurt.

She told as much to TFC when he dropped by to check in on her. The older man suggested that perhaps that wasn’t what love actually was, that perhaps she needed some time all to herself but she waved him off. What she was doing was done out of love, all that she did was out of love for the hermits. What else could love be?

She did, however, like the idea of taking a short break, no matter how guilty she felt out of it. The hermits respected her want for space as they always did, yet something akin to shame would always rise up her throat at the thought of not helping her friends. Part of her didn’t want to take some time to herself, wanted nothing more than to help others even if it hurt her because it hurt her even more to know there are people who needed her help.

They were worried about her, that much she could say. Every time they visited they would ask her how she was doing and it started grating on her nerves. She didn’t want to talk about herself, she didn’t want to share her feelings because her feelings didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she was able to help others make sense of their feelings.

Maybe one day she’d be strong enough to admit she was being a hypocrite. Maybe one day she’d open up just as she’d seen and convinced so many people to do with her. Maybe one day she could finally understand what her feelings were. Maybe one day after so long of caring for others, she’d learn to care for herself too, to be generous and kind and loving for herself and for others.

That day would not come for a long time, she knew that. Until then, she’d just be lying in her bed, watching the sun slowly rise. She’d wake up, see who needed help, prepare for them, and go on with her day. She’d do all of it with a smile, just to mask how small the world truly made her feel. That was the beauty of love; it always made her feel small.

_There will come a poet, whose weapon is his word_   
_He will slay you with his tongue_   
_O lei, O lai, O lord_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I envision Stress as being a type two on the enneagram. If any of you understand what that means then plus points to you! If you want this to maybe hurt even more, I suggest listening to Two by Sleeping At Last since that was basically the only thing I listened to while writing this.


	3. A King Off to Rebuild (xBCrafted)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All this time, love had been something he thought he didn't do enough of, though now that notion might be changing.

It was hard for him to believe that this was the world he was now in. There were a lot of differences between this one and the one he was born in. For one, this world was much more impressive with much less people. Where many people in his old world would come together to make a castle, one person could do the same work with much more resources gathered and in much more efficient ways. Where farms were manually harvested, in here it could be collected by machines that seamlessly traveled in the air. It all amazed him, and he didn’t hesitate to dive into the machinations and routines like everyone did when he joined them on the sandy beach of their new world.

It was wonderful, to be able to make something with his hands and call it his. It was refreshing to have to work to gather the simplest of objects on the first day, and it was thrilling to have tried and survived the first night. He ignored the fatigue that settled deep into his bones at first, not when he got rid of all the restless energy he had pent up inside. Not like in his previous world where he was expected to do what needed to be done, when he didn’t have the freedom to do what he wanted to do with his imagination.

If there was something that was similar between this world and his own, it was that he was never questioned with his choices. None of the hermits questioned why he sequestered himself so far away from the others. Everyone else’s bases were sequestered so close to each other that the view was incredible, yet here he was in his own patch of the savannah. Sure, they teased him about it but they never thought it right to squeeze themselves into his business and offer him somewhere closer to the others.

They never questioned the odd and perhaps morbid theme he chose for his base either. Of all things, why an apocalypse? It felt out of place with all the happier and upbeat themes the others had going on. The centerpiece of his base unnerved the hermits, he knew that. It was a fact he was simultaneously proud and ashamed of. His whole base was something he was simultaneously proud and ashamed of.

It was undeniably his, the buildings outside of the village he settled by were something he can claim to have built from the ground up. He couldn’t claim, however, that the designs were his. They came from his previous world, from the modern looks down to the worn down and cracked roads.

It was an homage and a reminder to the world and the people he left behind.

The hermits didn’t know why he disappeared in the last world, why he left without a word and reappeared without explanation. They were just too happy to see him again, and he was too deep in grief and guilt to tell them why. How could he tell them that he was the reason why his people were dead, why the kingdom he grew up in was reduced to rubble?

How could he tell them that he was a ruler in self-exile, who selfishly left them alone to suffer while he had the time of his life traveling with them? They didn’t know his past, didn’t know who he was or the role he was meant to play like he did.

He used to be leader of a sprawling area that deserved its title of kingdom. It was modern, sleek, but it was just as regal and splendid as the stone castles and wooden bridges of old. The roads were paved and travel was smooth but there was still that lingering feeling of excitement for everyone who walked on them, as though there was a quest waiting to be accomplished at each turn.

It was as magical as any kingdom could be in its own way, and he was more than proud to have been its leader, to have helped it grow and flourish. He may have inherited the position, but it only went to show that perhaps righteousness could be inherited just as hair or eye color could.

His land was straight out of a utopian fairytale, but all fairytales needed to come to an end somehow. His came in the form of a disease and a revolt, of some wanting more and others wanting what was enough for them. The land had dissolved into chaos, and perhaps his advisers had seen the end of the world when he only saw another hurdle in the road when they told him he needed to flee. He was unsafe amongst the turmoil, would continue to be unsafe as long as discord reigned or the kingdom stood tall, no matter what lasted longer.

He had to run because he was the leader. A kingdom is nothing if not its leader’s work. If he were to die then the essence of the kingdom would die. As long as he was alive, no matter where he was, he would still be king and he would still rule.

That was what he was told, at least. He refused to believe it, had wanted to stay and fight because that was what he was meant to do, that was what he promised the people he would do. He would fight for the kingdom, had to defend it to his last breath.

But his advisers were adamant and so were his friends, and he remembered the last thing he saw before disappearing through the portal was the site of his closest friend pushing him through.

It took him weeks to recover from the feelings of betrayal, and a few more to be able to open up to others again. It was in that time that he met Hypno, traveled with him and became close friends with him. When Hypno invited him to join the hermits, he was more than happy to get the chance to be a part of something once more.

No amount of excitement could ever overpower the feelings of guilt he constantly swallowed though. He didn’t have any contact with his home, was unable to find ways to learn of its situation without going back. He _wanted_ to go back, but he was stopped by the idea that it would go against what could very well be his friends’ final wishes. 

The feeling of guilt never went away, nor did the nagging thoughts of his abandoning his people ever leave. Instead, he went to each new world with a part of himself that loathed his selfishness, that despised himself for dropping his duties.

It was a never-ending battle. He would feel happy with each new build he made, then feel disappointed that he had made it in this world and not in his home. Then came the anger, the thoughts of _‘Why didn’t I stay, I should have stayed,’_. It would always end with sleepless nights of pondering about what he could do and what he didn’t do, spiraling into what could only be described as a deep sadness that kept him awake. 

Somewhere near the start of the hermits’ last world did he decide to act on his thoughts. He decided to go back, to see what just happened to the people he left behind and what he saw, or rather, what he _didn’t_ see, had chilled him to the bone.

Gone were the people he used to rule over, and gone was that feeling of peace as he walked through decimated lands. The grass was overtaken by harsh patches of colors that seemed too unnatural against the blacks and whites of their skyscrapers. He didn’t recall much from his trip, only that overwhelming feeling of defeat at seeing the once grandiose collection of buildings be reduced to nothing more than rubble.

He had wandered alone again after that. He couldn’t return to the hermits in defeat, not when he suddenly had that weight on his shoulder. The people he loved and wanted to serve were gone. Perhaps, he thought back then, that he didn’t love his people enough if he failed to fulfill his duty towards them.

In the time he wandered however, he started to realize that might not exactly be the case. There could be something right in the words of his advisers. It was cliche perhaps, and just a bit cheesy, but classic tropes become widespread for the truth they held in their words. 

His kingdom was what he made of it, he ruled as long as he said he ruled. His kingdom is more than just the physical aspects of its builds; it was also the spirituality behind why they built. They built so that life could be enjoyed, so that others would be able to live the best lives they could. They built so that they could change and evolve with the world and ahead of the world, so that they may not be left behind in the dark. They built and they created because they loved their land, and they loved each other and themselves. Perhaps, just as xB loved them.

There was still guilt when he returned to the hermits. There will always be guilt. Yet there was something else there as well: the knowledge that maybe, just maybe, xB was still a king even in this odd world. The hermits aren’t exactly his subjects, but co-rulers of this world of endless creativity and imagination.

So he built his post-apocalyptic home as a reminder of where he came from in the world he chose to build in. It was a monument for what his people were able to do, and what he’ll do to continue it. Every time he looked at it, walked through its worn down streets and looked up at the cracked windows, he was reminded of his duty.

He had a duty to protect what his kingdom stood for, and that went beyond the majestic towers. His kingdom stood for happiness, for innovation and change and a want to move forward. 

If that meant dedicating all his time and effort to this new world then he’d do it. If that meant enjoying his time with the hermits, then he would enjoy it as much as he could.

If that meant he had to love himself, well, what else could he do?

_There will come a ruler whose brow is laid in thorn_   
_Smeared with oil like David’s boy_   
_O lei, O lai, O lord_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> xB is one of my favorite hermits I can't believe it took me this long to write for him.
> 
> And with that we're done and I'm probably gonna stop uploading for a while now that school's come back to bite me. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the support, I truly appreciate it! I hope you guys enjoyed it!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Sincerely hoped you enjoyed this and my other works. I always love writing for this fandom hehe.


End file.
